Winston's coda, Good dog
by BarkingMad98
Summary: Hannibal finale coda in Winston's POV. He tells his story from beginning until where we are now. I had a lot of feels okay, enjoy.


'Good dog', Winston's coda.

The roads are dark and lonely, and there is nothing there to eat. The cold nips at your nose, hunger growls in your belly, and the metal beasts charge up and down. I used to have a pack; she left one morning and did not come back. Pack sticks together, that's just what they do, they never abandon each other. I waited for her, like a good dog, I waited for her return. But she did not come back. She left me behind. I miss her dearly, but a dog must not be without a pack, so I left to look for a new pack. Sometimes the roads are noisy, when many metal beasts go charging by under the hard sway of the sun, but when the moon sits silently in the sky it is quiet. They all fall asleep on the side of the road, and that is when it is safe to move; when the roads are dark.

That's how I found him. I trotted down the winding road; the sky was smothered in grey cloud and a chill night breeze snapped at my heels. A lone beast rumbled past, quieter and slower than the rest, and then it stopped with a sigh and he got out. I wagged my tail and flattened my ears, he smelt good good good; like home and food. He moved calm and steady, his eyes shone bright bright bright, full and warm and _good_. I had found another pack now, he was my pack. He offered food, protection and a comforting touch. I was happy now, this was a good pack. Our den is small and full, but it is full with family so that is alright. The others are loud and clamber over each other in an excited scramble, emotions mixing in a tangle of flailing limbs and lolling tongues. I keep quiet, like a good dog I stay stuck to his side. He needs me, I am certain of this. He tells me I am a good dog, and this must be true because he says it is so and I trust him. He is my pack.

One day he comes home with another two legger; the others rush to greet him but I stay back. He smells wrong wrong wrong and his eyes are dark dark dark. He walks with the grace of a hunter toying with his prey. He offers food which the others hurriedly snuffle up, but I stay back. The food smells good but is bad bad bad, it is covered with the same black that spills from his eyes. _Evil_. But then he is gone and everything is well and I am happy.  
Sometimes master howls in the night. His big heart beats fast fast fast, but his mind runs even faster. He whines and cries and howls; he smells like sweat and fear and the terrible terrible darkness, and I put my nose under his chin to tell him I am here. I will chase away the darkness, I tell him. He is my pack, and pack looks out for each other. Sometimes he goes wandering in the night when his mind is not all there. The others stop at the gate but I follow him onto the road. The blackness hovers in his footsteps, and swirls around his head, but I stick by his side and nuzzle his hand; calling him back.

We don't like it when he leaves. We stand at the door and wait for his return, because he always returns. He leaves in the morning as the stars fade from the sky, and he returns when they flicker back into sight. He returns, bringing in the smell of chilled grass, frozen tree and hot metal. When he returns, his feet are heavy and weary, his eyes are ashen and bleary and their light is fading out like the stars in the morning. His mind still wanders now, even when he is awake. It wanders broken and lost like a pup in a storm. I cannot call him back this time.

The next morning he leaves, but this time he doesn't come back.  
Many many two leggers crowd around the door, and their metal beasts race closer, whirring and wailing. This time when he leaves it is different. They pull him away while I can only watch. Where is he going? Pack does not leave each other. I try to go with him, but I am pulled back, so I watch, confused and hurt. I whine and tilt my head, _come home_. _I need you_

He wraps his arms around himself, like he is broken into pieces and is trying to hold himself together. He turns to me, his head hangs low and his eyes are sad. They used to be so bright bright bright, but are smothered with the grey clouds of the road I walked, like the dark fog obscuring the moonlight.

'Good dog', he says. And I must be a good dog, because he says so, and he is pack. And like pack, I wait because good dogs do not leave. I am a good dog.

End


End file.
